Santawa

“Don’t cry,” a hoarse voice, like a duck’s, from the boy of thirteen, almost fourteen, the age of transition from boy to young man, rang out. ‘P’ (Brother Po) knelt down in front of the girl, pulling a handkerchief from his school pants pocket to wipe her cheeks and tears. He then gently pressed her nose, prompting her to blow her nose quickly but softly—a familiar gesture, as if he’d done it hundreds of times. “P’ Po, I’m not a tattletale, I don’t curse at others, and I’m not a tattler. Oat said I’m a tattler, but I’m not!” the not-a-tattletale said, her voice trembling, pointing to the boy who was standing up, brushing off his school pants.

“Mm… you’re not a tattler,” the older boy nodded, turning to look silently at the boy named Oat. The fourteen-year-old boy’s eyes were quite round, and his thin, small face made his dark eyes appear even larger. The girl blinked, feeling a pang of fear. Who would have thought the girl with pigtails had such an older brother! And he’d just shown up in the middle of bullying her!

The group of friends who had been teasing the new girl fell silent. They looked at the older boy, who, despite his skinny, lanky appearance, was much taller, stronger, and older than them. What if he got angry and retaliated? No matter how delicious Oat’s snacks were, it wasn’t worth getting beaten up. The younger boys looked distraught, huddled together silently.

“Are you hurt?” a boy in a middle school uniform asked. He helped the girl stand up, brushed the dust off her blue school skirt, picked grass out of her socks, and frowned at the red marks on her leg. He then glared at the ringleader, his brows furrowed in anger.

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